


In Memory Of An Admirable Woman

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Funerals, Grief/Mourning, Hero Worship, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: You hate funerals and always have. But this was one you knew you had to attend.





	

You hate funerals and always have. Your father died when you were seven, and four years later your mother was buried next to him. Cirrhosis, though no one told you there was a name for it. All you knew when you were a kid was that Mom and Dad usually smelled like alcohol when they kissed you good night, and that they fought with the neighbors a lot, over things that were both real and imagined.

You wore your dress uniform for this, got it dry-cleaned, and you took special care to put on your few medals. The Purple Heart in particular is a source of pride, a companion piece to the scar you picked up in Afghanistan when you took a bullet in the shoulder. You can still feel the stiffness sometimes, mostly when the weather is cold, but you went back to active duty once you were healed.

The church is crowded, and you're uncomfortable because you never wear your dress blues outside of rare occasions. And because part of you doesn't want to be here. The part of you that you're ignoring, because this is a thing you knew you needed to do. You aren't religious, or haven't _been_ religious for a long time, but you do believe in paying respect where its been earned. And its been more than earned in this case.

"Did you know her?"

The voice comes from your left, and when you look in the direction of it a man with sandy hair and blue eyes is giving you a sympathetic look. Either he can read how ill at ease you are or he doesn't think you belong here, but before you can jump to conclusions, you hear a mental noise that's like a record scratch as your mouth lets fly before your brain can catch up.

"Holy sh...you're Steve Rogers."

You're horrified, because you almost said 'shit' in church, and because you almost said 'shit' to Captain America. The squeakiest of all the squeaky-clean good guys who stepped up to serve their country, no matter the cost. A hero. A _legend_ , the way the reason you're here is a legend. You force your stupid mouth to close before you can embarrass yourself further, but he's smiling at you ruefully. That helps you pull it together. He's wearing a dark suit and a blue tie.

"No, I...I didn't. I wish I's gotten to meet her, but she was retired by the time I enlisted. I read about her after the school at the res talked about her during history class."

His smile dims, and he faces forward to look at the large color photograph of Margaret Carter where it sits in a place of honor, perched on an easel. You always wondered why everyone called her Peggy instead. _Margaret_ sounds better somehow, more authoritative. Bossier, if you're being honest, which isn't a bad thing. _Peggy_ sounds like a PTA mom. _Margaret_ sounds like someone who kicks ass and takes names. But you don't say it, because the man sitting next to you was - is? - in love with her, and you don't want to hurt him any more than he's already been hurt. Because he's obviously been crying., even though his posture is straight and his suit is well-pressed. But you can read the anguish in his face, as if he's remembering all those years been Then and Now. He should be old, gray-haired. Retired. But he isn't, and you can't imagine what it must be like to have the pieces of your past fall away one by one.

"What reservation?"

"Navajo. Arizona."

There's pride in the way you say it, but its a weird pride. The res was a hard place to grow up; alcoholism, poverty, unemployment, poor schools. But it was also Mom cooking on Sundays, because before the bottle got her she was a wife and a mother who _cared_. It was the smell of coffee in the mornings and tripping on Dad's work boots and sitting on the porch as the sun set. _Home_ , even when it was hell and you hated it. You pull at the collar of your uniform coat, and Steve looks at you.

"Not used to formal dress?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice, and you lift your shoulders in a shrug.

"I haven't worn it since my commendation ceremony. It usually lives in a plastic bag in the back of my closet, but I wanted to look...I wanted to look proper today. Y'know, for her."

He just stares at you for a minute, and you can't tell what he's thinking and it's strange and it's uncomfortable because he looks like he's your age. But his eyes....even without the grief in those blue depths, he's got the eyes of a man who has seen far too much. And can't forget any of it.

"I should have married her when I had the chance. Even if I still went to war, I could have. I wasted my chance."

His voice catches at the end of the sentence, and his posture slumps for a minute. You look away, because men don't like to cry while others watch. The church is getting more crowded. Whether she was Agent Margaret Carter or Peggy, the girl a frail would-be soldier named Steve fell in love with, she touched dozens if not hundreds of lives. Sitting there in the pew, the two of you grieve together, him for the life he might have had and you for the loss of someone you'd never met but who inspired you to get off the reservation and put on a uniform. To hopefully make a difference.

"You must have been something for her to have noticed you. Even without the super-juice."

He actually laughs a little, and that makes you feel better. It isn't just funerals you hate, it's seeing someone helplessly grieve. You reach out and touch his wrist, where the coat ends, and the visible corner of his mouth lifts as you watch him in profile. 

"We were both something back then."

"I admired her. I wish I'd known her, gotten to talk to her, but I was born too late."

He shakes his head, a negation, and when he says, "You were probably born when you were supposed to be born," it warms a spot beneath your breastbone. "We all make our own history, even when it doesn't go into any book."

He looks towards the church doors, and his posture is straight again. Determined, if a little resigned. He too is half one thing and half something else, a man who became a hero before becoming almost a myth. But right now, he is simply Steve Rogers, seeing his girl off. One last time.

"I'm a pallbearer," he explains, and you shift yourself so he can get past you and into the aisle. 

"She would have appreciated that you were here. I can say that even without having met her."

He smiles at you, a warm genuine smile, and when he and the other pallbearers carry the casket past you, you get up from your seat and salute. The best, smartest damn salute you've ever given, and you hold it until they've passed by. Steve meets your eyes, and the small nod of acknowledgement he sends your way fills you with pride. Because he needed to see that, your admiration. So that he can go on doing what heroes do.


End file.
